Looking down from the Eiffel Tower, Alan Greenmor stands on the edge, determined to end it all. As he prepares to jump, his thoughts are interrupted by a cough. To his right is a mysterious stranger in a dark suit, smoking a cigar. This is Yves Dubreuil. The person who will change Alanís life.

Dubreuil convinces Alan to reconsider his plans, with one caveat: instead of ending his life, he will give his life over to Dubreuil. In return, Dubreuil promises to teach Alan the secrets to happiness and success.

And so, Alan embarks on a wild ride of self-discovery. From a humiliating fiasco at a Parisian bakery, to finding the strength to assert himself in his companyís boardroom, Alan learns to overcome his deepest fears and self-doubts, face lifeís unexpected twists and turns, take crazy risks, and fully accept himself in the process.

From best-selling author Laurent Gounelle, The Man Who Risked It All explores the fragility of life and the possibilities that are presented to us in the unlikeliest circumstances.

EXCERPT

The soft, warm night enveloped me. It was taking me in its arms, carrying me. I could feel my body melting into it, as if I were already floating in the air.

I had imagined hearing the hubbub of the city, so I was surprised by the peace and quiet. Not silence, no, but peace and quiet. All the sounds that reached me were gentle, distant, soothing.

One little step . . .

Slowly, very slowly, I walked along the steel beam that the lights had transformed into dark gold. That night, the Eiffel Tower and I were as one. I was walking on gold, breathing in air that was warm and damp, with a strange scent that was enticing, intoxicating. Beneath me, 360 feet below, lay Paris, offering herself to me. Her twinkling lights were so many winking, calling eyes. Patiently, aware she was irresistible, she was waiting for my blood to come and fertilize her.

One more step . . .

I had thought it all out and carefully prepared for what I was about to do. I had chosen it, accepted it, made it part of me. Very calmly, I had made up my mind to end a life that was devoid of purpose or meaning, that no longer offered anything that was worth the trouble.

One step . . .

My life was a string of failures that had begun even before my birth. My fatheróif thatís what you can call the vulgar progenitoróhad not even judged me worthy of knowing him. He had left my mother as soon as she told him she was pregnant.

Was it with the intention of getting rid of me that she had tried to drown her despair in a Paris bar? The many drinks she had consumed with the American businessman she met there did not, however, cloud her mind. He was 39; she was 26. She was anxious; his relaxed air reassured her. He seemed well off; she was struggling to survive. She gave herself to him that night, calculatingly and with hope. The next morning, she was tender and loving, and I will never know if was sincerely or out of weakness that he said yes, of course, if ever she became pregnant, he wanted her to keep the child and stay by his side.

She followed him to the United States, and in the land of excess, nobody was surprised that I came into the world at seven-and-a-half months already weighing nearly six-and-a-half pounds. I was given an American name, and so I became Alan Greenmor, an American citizen. My mother learned English and managed as best she could to adapt to life in her adopted country. But things took a tragic turn. Five years after they arrived, my new father lost his job, and, unable to find another one during the pre-Reagan economic crisis, he spiraled down into alcoholism. He became bad-tempered, uncommunicative, and depressed. My mother was disgusted by his lack of initiative and constantly criticized him for his spinelessness. Deeply resentful, she continually looked for ways to provoke him, using the slightest transgression as an excuse to criticize him. His lack of reaction led her to increase the attacks, heaping on more and more insults. She seemed to derive some satisfaction when he at last got angry, preferring his anger to his apathy. I was terrified by her game. I loved my parents and couldnít bear to see them destroying each other. My fatherís fits of anger were rare but explosive, and I feared them as much as my mother desired them. When she at last got a reaction from him,, she had an adversary, a man who could stand up for himself. She finally had an outlet for her built-up resentment, and she really lashed out with her tongue. One evening, my father beat her, and I was less traumatized by his violence than by the perverse pleasure I read on my motherís face. One night, during a particularly terrible argument, my mother flung in his face that I was not really his sonóa fact that I became aware of at the same time. He left the house the next day and was never seen again. My second father had left me as well.

My mother struggled to keep us alive. She worked long hours, six days a week, in a laundry. She brought its chemical smells home every night. When she came to kiss me at bedtime, I no longer recognized my motherís much-loved scent, the scent that before had reassured me, inviting me to sleep as it enveloped me in tenderness.

One step, then another . . .

After my father left, my mother went from one low-level job to another, believing each time that she could rise up through the ranks, get a promotion, and earn more. She also went from lover to lover, with the hope of keeping one and setting up a home. I think one day she realized that all these hopes about her life were futile, and that is when she focused everything on me. I would succeed where she had failed. I would earn so much money that she would be wealthy, too. From that moment, my education became her absolute priority. I was ordered to bring home good grades. At meals, our conversation revolved around school, the teachers, my results. My mother became my trainer; I was her colt. Speaking French with her and English with the rest of the world, I had been bilingual from birth. She repeated endlessly that this was a major asset. I was sure to become an international businessman or a great interpreter. She even imagined me as Secretary of State. Only losers have no ambition, she said. I was very afraid of disappointing her, so I worked as hard as I could in school, getting good marks. But my success only increased her expectations of me; it confirmed that her strategy was working.

Excerpted from the book The Man Who Risked It All by LaurantGounelle. It is published by Hay House and available at all bookstores or online at: www.hayhouse.com